Lorelai's Heart
by cuppacuppajoe
Summary: Rory's journey to knowing her heart. Written for the Rory Ficathon 2006, for fulfilled. RoryLogan
1. Heart

**Lorelai's Heart**

-----

In the center of the paper, very small, in black ink, I draw a heart,

not a silly Valentine but an anatomically correct heart, tiny, doll-like,

and then veins, delicate road maps of veins, that reach all the way to the

edges of the paper, that hold the small heart enmeshed like a fly in a spiderweb.

_See, there's his heartbeat._

- The Time Traveler's Wife (Audrey Niffenegger)

-----

January 16, 2009 (Week 10)

This is the sound of your heartbeat: _Whirr-whirr-whirr-whirr-whirr. _

Dr. Thornton had rubbed clammy, sticky gel on the lower part of my stomach, and pressed an instrument that looked like a small microphone against me. _Whirr-whirr-whirr-whirr-whirr._ That's what I heard, a strange, hollow, rapidly humming machine. She said that was your little 10-week-old beating heart.

In the background, I could hear another, fainter beat: _TUD-tod.TUD-tod.TUD-tod. _Slower, steadier, the way I always thought hearts beat. What's that? That's _your_ heart, she told me.

Our two heartbeats, side by side. How strange to know–and hear–that there's been a second heart sleeping inside of me. But they sound different. I know how my heart beats. _But I do not know yours. _

-----

January 18

Your Dad will be home tonight.

Of course, he doesn't know he's a Dad, _heart._

(Yes, I need to call you something–and I've decided that is what I'm calling you, for now. Because that's all you are, really. Dr. Thornton said you're small still, smaller than my fist. Do you know my heart _is_ the size of my fist?)

Should I tell him? Stupid question, I know. And shush you, don't berate me. It's not simple.

Your Dad is head of "acquisitions and start-ups" of the Huntzberger Publishing Group. Big words for a big, fat, important position. Overseeing nearly a dozen growing publications, and managing to squeeze in an article or two for his favorite newspapers every now and then. And me, I've been a reporter for the last year-and-a-half at this nice newspaper in New York–the _Times_, which is pretty important too. (Just think Lois Lane, kid, you'll get it.)

Edgar Stansfield–he's my editor–has been grooming me in the last 6 months for some bigger assignments in the International desk. Already I've shadowed Tim in one of his trips to Beijing, and co-wrote a piece with Greg on the continuing unrest in Pakistan, which are both about as international as you could get at my level. (If you're anything like your Grandma, I know this is more boring than impressive to you right now, heart. But since you are inside me and unable to plug your fingers into your ears as she does, you really have no choice but to hear me out.) Suffice it to say that after two years of working my butt off at this paper–with a senior-year Reston Fellowship under my belt at that–your Mama's finally going places.

I think it would be the bee's knees to be a full-fledged international journalist, heart… This has been my dream, since–I don't know, maybe when I was 12 and wrote an essay for my 6th grade English class on "The Impact of U.S. Involvement in the Vietnam War on Newspaper and Television Reporting". (I was obsessed with _My Lai 4 _then, see. Ms. Tanner couldn't believe I wrote that essay, by the way. She gave me an A- and kept looking at me suspiciously from above her bifocals for the rest of the term.) Or maybe it was even years earlier in 3rd grade, when I stayed home for weeks with the pox, drowning my boredom in chocolate pudding and mashed potatoes and committing to memory the countries of the world and their capitals and landmarks and national flags from a battered copy of _The World Atlas_ Lane picked up for me from the library. _(Fes: third largest city in Morocco, after Casablanca and Rabat, believed to be the largest carfree urban area in the world, and home of the Festival of World Sacred Music.)_ Point is, I've known what I've wanted to do with my life for ever so long: I wanted to see the world, and tell the world what was going on in the world.

But you guessed it, neither Edgar, Tim, Greg, nor anyone at work knows about you. No one knows about you. Not even my Mom.

Back to me and your Dad. Let me give you a snapshot of how our life has been in the last two years: I'm on a plane to California, he's on a plane to Washington. Or, I'm on a plane to Chicago, and he's on a plane to London. Our relationship is pencilled in days and hours on our Filofaxes and Palm Pilots _(Oct 27: dinner, 6:30-8:45)_, squeezed in between meetings, writing, flying. Touch relegated to the buzz of mobile phones and Blackberrys. As if we're secret lovers sneaking a tryst here and there. We actually share an apartment here in the city. But as soon as it seems we've got our daily routine down, sleeping and waking in each other's arms–a couple of nights spent watching TV together lulling us into a false sense of stability–then we're up and moving again, going someplace, waving hello and goodbye. Missing each other.

Still think its simple? _Our world cannot seem to stop for each other. _Let alone for your beating heart.

-----

January 19

Actually, he _did_ want it all to stop. That was around 7 months ago. (June 25, 2008. 9:34 p.m.)

"Let's get married, Ace," he said.

We lay on the couch in a tangle of clothing and body parts, not even making it to the bed. We hadn't seen each other in a week, and things got…primordial when I met him at the door. And messy. And wonderful. (I'll spare you the details, heart.) We were in our habitual pre-sleep position, me leaning into him, my forehead against his neck, him twisting my hair around his fingers. Then he said it, completely out of the blue, echoing in the quiet of the living room.

"That would be the very happy and sated neurochemicals talking," I told him. "Endorphins, I believe they're called." Making light of his words, which weigh heavily in my heart until now.

"Rory, I'm serious." He turned my face up to look at him, his thumb tracing my chin. "Let's get married." He said it again, with more conviction. "I'm getting tired of this lifestyle, of us moving around so much. Maybe there's something to be said about 'settling down', huh?"

It wasn't quite the marriage proposal a woman imagines from the love of her life. But we've been together a long time, I guess we're past the pomp and formality of the whole asking-for-thine-hand-in-marriage. But here's the rub: I can't quite explain why the phrase "settling down" got to me at that time, but it did. As did his eyes, which were an unnervingly deeper chocolate than I'd ever seen them. I ended up giving him an answer that wasn't quite what a man imagines from the love of his life.

"By 'settling down', you mean you want to come home and have me welcome you with a hot casserole, a warm bath, and a baby at my hip?" I couldn't keep the thinly veiled sarcasm–or was it defensiveness? fear?–from my voice.

And he couldn't keep a small smile from appearing on his face, a far-away look in his eyes. I don't think he realized I was mocking. "I'd like that, you being home when I come home," he said quietly.

"Well, maybe I won't." I untangled myself from his arms and legs, picked up a shoe here, my panties there, and marched to the bedroom. "If you wanted–I don't know, a Donna-Reed-Stepford-wife–heck, if you wanted someone like your mother–you wouldn't have agreed to become my boyfriend three-and-a-half years ago," I burst out, unthinking. "I won't get married to 'settle down'," I said, before slamming the door behind me.

I know what you're thinking, heart. _What a bitch._ And I agree. I was utterly unfair, dumping so-called feminist crap on him like that. When all he said was he wanted us to get married. All he said…it threw me completely off-guard. Settle down? God, I'm so not ready to settle down. Not at 24. Not when I have to–I don't know–fly to the Middle East to cover a groundbreaking story. Not if settling down means organizing fundraisers and ordering salmon puffs (no garnish on the trays!) for some Huntzberger family or company function.

I was pacing back and forth in the bedroom, overcome with an overwhelming desire to _run_, when my eye caught the picture framed on my bedside table. A close-up photo I shot of your Dad–of Logan–laughing, on his graduation day. And I can't remember how many times I've fallen asleep with that picture clutched in my hand, when I couldn't sleep because the bed–the entire apartment–seemed too large, gaping. It gets pretty pathetic, actually. The thought of falling asleep together at night made my heart literally ache with longing.

What the hell had come over me? I'm no longer 16, for crying out loud.

I finally peeked out of the bedroom long minutes later. He usually followed me, not letting up, when we had an argument. He didn't follow me then. And he was still lying on the couch, exactly how I had left him, his dress shirt open, his hair rumpled by my hand. Looking up at the ceiling.

"I didn't expect that my saying I wanted to marry you would bring on a rant about my apparent gender insensitivity. With a side of Shira, to boot," he said when he heard me say his name. "Guess I missed out on the office seminar on politically correct marriage proposals."

"I'm awful," I said, moving towards him. "I know you probably didn't mean what I thought you meant. Guess I missed out on the office seminar on how to respond to spur-of-the-moment-post-coital marriage proposals."

_God woman, way to go on the heartfelt apology._ And for the life of me, I couldn't think of anything else to say. Wait? Maybe? Ask me again in a year or two? Yes?

"Logan…I--I'm sorry."

He turned his head to look at me, and his brow was thoroughly confused. "No. _I'm_ sorry. For wanting to be with you more than two or three times a week, Rory. That I want you to be home when I come home, and for thinking that just maybe, you'd want _me_ to be home when you come home too. For thinking that you'd want to slow down a bit, cut back on the travel, because I want to slow down. For wanting to bring our relationship to the next level…to maybe start a fa--" He stopped abruptly, wouldn't even say the word family. Perhaps he thought I might go off on a second round of ranting. Perhaps I would.

He sat up to button his pants and shirt, and ran a hand through his hair. "But I guess it does sound crazy considering where we are in both our careers. So, I'm sorry." He collected his portfolio and laptop bag, rummaged around the couch for his phone. "I never thought I'd want to get married, Rory. Certainly not at 27." Letting me know this wasn't a small thing for him.

"I know…and–and thank you." Oh God.

"_Thank you?"_ He shook his head in disbelief. While I mentally congratulated myself for yet another entry in the Rory Gilmore's-classic-moronic-comebacks book.

"Are you going somewhere? Logan, don't leave. Let's try to talk about this."

"What's to talk about? You're not ready, and I get it. I'm going to the office for a while, catch up on some paperwork."

"But you're upset."

He turned to me from the open doorway and heaved a sigh. "I'm not upset _at you,_ Rory," he said simply. "I'm just tired. Oh, and incidentally, it may have been a spur-of-the-moment proposal, but it wasn't a spur-of-the-moment idea." Then he went out.

After a terrible moment of paralysis, I caught up with him in the hallway before he stepped into the elevator. "I'm so sorry if I hurt you. Logan, I love you, I do love you. You know that, right?" Pressing my nose against his arm. _He wants to marry me. _My heart seemed to finally respond as it should.

"Yeah," was all he said, so quietly I hardly heard it. But he didn't return the kiss I placed on his lips. And at dawn the next morning, I found him sleeping on the couch, not beside me on our bed.

Seven months later, I'm pregnant with you. And still not ready. Not ready for what it might really mean to have you both in my life.

-----

January 22

I had to get up to drink water. But also, I had to get up because I woke up with his head on my stomach–on you. I was scared he would hear your _whirr-whirr-whirr _from inside me. There, I've said it.

2:23 a.m.: _scared_

Of what?

He said my breasts looked different, fuller, when we made love. He loved them. And I realized I'm starting to show.

I wonder if you'll have blonde hair? I wish you could just appear, and he can look at you and know.

-----

January 23

Here's how _I_ found out about you anyway.

Your Dad and I were rushing to get coffee in some shop in JFK (I forgot where–Starbucks?). I had driven him to the airport for his 7:30 flight to—forgot that too–somewhere. I do remember that it was soon after Thanksgiving, because I was chatting with Mom on the phone about her Black Friday shopping frenzy with April, with Luke ranting in the background about instilling "frivolous financial sense" in the "child". "I know, I'm desperately trying to reverse the genes of the cheapskate in her!" Lorelai had called back in singsong. I was laughing as Logan steered me to the counter. Then the smell of fresh ground coffee hit me, and I was reeling.

Now if there's one thing, anything you need to know about me, your Mother, it is this: I love coffee. I live, breathe, die for coffee. Coffee, coffee, coffee! If you're born screaming your lungs out because you're suffering from caffeine withdrawal and they have to place you in an incubator like a crack baby, you know why, kid. (And you have no one to blame but yourself.) On that particular morning, when little else was remarkable enough to remember, I remember not being able to stand the smell of coffee. I remember feeling light-headed, even nauseous, at the smell (the stench!) of perky brewing coffee. I had to make a run for the bathroom to throw up.

And when a Gilmore throws up at the scent of coffee, you know that something is terribly wrong. That things are not as they should be, and the world as we know it is coming to an end.

I haven't had coffee since then. Haven't even craved it. Logan suspects that I've simply outgrown my addiction, as if it were some childhood allergy.

"Who knows, I may yet live to see the day when Rory Gilmore eats a brussel sprout sans any disgusting facial expressions and gagging noises," he had said while we had a rare Sunday breakfast in bed. Breakfast without coffee.

"Or you may _not_ live to see the day because the sudden drop in caffeine in my blood stream after 24 years has transformed my personality to that of an axe murderer, so you watch your back mister."

"Aw, is that any way to talk to the man who feeds you your almost-as-good-as-Luke's blueberry pancakes? Besides, you're practically sitting on my lap, Ms. Axe Murderer," he chuckled, tugging my hair playfully. "I'm actually kinda liking this. You're cute when you're grumpy. Now I get to see you grumpy every morning."

"Cute! Stop gloating and mocking my decaffeinated spirit," I had growled, downing his orange juice.

He had yet to realize that I haven't been too crazy about blueberry pancakes lately, either. I was just grateful that he had not put too much meaning into the change in my eating habits. I know of course that this is one of those gazillion things that change when a person has another person inside of them. Dictating what they can and can't eat. I've been eating a lot of bananas, actually. And I haven't been drinking coffee. I kind of miss that coffee-chapter of my life. Things are not as they should be.

-----

January 27

Okay, found it wadded up at the bottom of my purse. The list I made from Dec 4, on a Starbucks napkin. (Where I ended up having OJ. What can I say? I tried.) Pasting it here for posterity's sake:

**Con:**

1. the whole labor thing

2. not being able to smell or drink coffee

3. stretch marks

4. my (job) career on hold

5. swollen feet

6. Shira-- (you being related to her by blood)

7. the whole motherhood thing

**Pro:**

1. maternity clothes

2. L.

3. the whole motherhood thing (?)

Let me explain a few points about the Cons. About the labor–my threshold for pain is pathetically low. I stub my toe and I howl like a banshee, loud enough for Babette to barge through our back door waving a pan over her head (in case I was being attacked). Being in a hospital tends to freak me out (and that's when I'm not even the patient). God knows what apocalypse might break out with me in a hospital having a 7-lb watermelon come out of me. (Oh God, I'm making myself sick just thinking about it.)

Coffee–already told you about that tale of woe. Stretch marks–ugly. (Okay. Fine. I know I probably won't parade around in a bikini in a public place to save my life, but just in case I wanted to, huh? What then?)

And my feet swell horribly in long flights, blood pooling and all that from falling asleep in a sitting position for too long. Can you imagine my tootsies when I've ballooned to ten times my size 4? Not pretty. But on second thought, this isn't really a Con you know. It's not likely now that I'll be taking any long flights in the next 6 months (refer to Con #4). Perhaps not for a long, long while after, even. I haven't heard of any globe-trotting-baby-toting-Pulitzer-worthy foreign correspondent, have you? Didn't think so. After all, who's going to read you–and bawl over–_The Velveteen Rabbit _night after night? Who is going to initiate you to Willy Wonka and the charms of oompaloompas (and wake you up from your nightmares of tiny orange men afterwards)? Who's going to quiz you for your spelling test so you don't make the same humiliating mistake of spelling _rendezvous_ as _roundevoo?_ My mother did all that for me (except for the spelling thing, obviously). And if I ever hope to measure up to even her little pinky finger…

Well that's the thing, isn't it? Thinking of myself as a mom (not that I ever did, 'til now), I envision myself as the "cool mom", the one the Parises, Madelines, and Colins of this world would secretly envy you for. Like Lorelai. I'm not very cool though, heart, not really. Let me set you straight on that early on. In fact, I think I'm pretty boring sometimes. Some people have even called me "odd". Oh I know, motherhood isn't about being cool. It's about…love, and being there, and support, and friendship, and all the hundred other catch-phrases copyrighted by Hallmark. I trust they know their stuff, that being a mother is some wonderful, unparalleled experience. (They invented Mother's Day after all.) I wonder, though, do those things just…happen? Are women just born that way? Or are these things learned? Is there some crash course out there, Motherhood 101, that I could join ('cause I'm an excellent student, heart). Would the course tell me why I'm not jumping up and down at the thought of being a mom? At the thought of having you?

About the Pros, I couldn't come up with many (and I'm thinking that's pretty sad). Only that I loved Sarah Jessica Parker's pea-in-a-pod outfits, heart, when she was pregnant ages ago (she was the fashion and sex icon in my day, hon). I'm sorry, I suppose that is just the height of shallowness and frivolity. That would be the genes of your grandmama Lorelai in me.

And there's your Dad. Nothing shallow there. I can't even write about him without sounding utterly corny. (But it's just you, after all.) What Logan is to me–that goes without saying, you know? He is as regular and unseen and…vital as the beating of my own heart. I'd want him to be happy. And in my heart of hearts, I think he will be, with you.

While me, God help me, your own Mother, has to write up a damned list to sort out how she feels.

_Damn._ I should just tear up this stupid, lame list to pieces. A 7-point Con clearly outweighs a 3-point Pro. When I'm choosing between pizza or Chinese, or a blue or green tie for your Dad, that is. Not when its about babies, or this…this whole motherhood thing, how crass. Not when your heart, and your Dad's heart, are on the table. That messes up the whole equation.

By the way, I know I haven't told you anything about Shira and Mitchum yet, heart. But that deserves another entry on another day, when I can afford to be in a really crappy mood.

-----

February 7

And that day would be now. Well brace yourself, heart. This is going to be a sordid story of rejection and betrayal.

The New York Times Company–of which my paper is a part–hosted a black-tie dinner last night to commemorate the success of its annual Neediest Cases Fund campaign. Normally I don't attend these occasions–not that I don't want to, because these are the best places to get starstruck with the greats of journalism. (Yes, the words "starstruck" and "journalism" go together in my book. Such as Seymour Hersh of _My Lai 4_ fame, who shook my hand on June 14, 2008 at the Adolph Ochs benefit dinner and said, "Nice to meet you Ms. Gilmore". Quite a defining moment in my life.) At my level, I don't get invited very often to these grand parties, except that the Neediest Cases project is all-important to the company. Having raised 10 million this year–well that's something certainly worth celebrating. Worth celebrating with the campaign's most generous benefactors, such as the Huntzberger Publishing Group, in fact. And its _those_ occasions I do my best to avoid.

Because walking into a room on the arm of Logan Huntzberger, tagged the Golden Boy, the heir apparent to the HPG media empire, one of the most eligible bachelors in New York city (the list goes on), is like walking into a den of wolves. Hungry, prowling, sinister, sly.

Meet the den mother herself, Shira Huntzberger (yes, that would be your grandmother-to-be). She took one look at me at my first dinner-cum-shanghai with the Huntzbergers four years ago, and dismissed me as an unworthy girlfriend (your Dad's _first,_ might I emphasize). This, despite Chilton and Yale, a coming-out party, and ancestors disembarking from the Mayflower. Because in the end, I want a career in journalism, don't I, travel the world and all that. A girl like me couldn't possibly know what it means to be a Huntzberger. Which, I suppose, entails knowing which fabrics would be appropriate for summer versus winter draperies, the caterers that serve the best sushi (fresh), and which DAR ladies to invite and not to invite (because of some horrible scandal or other) in the annual fundraiser. Now I've organized a few DAR events in my time, heart, and they were a blast, because I'm nothing if not organized, right? But I'll never want to make a career out of being like Shira. I find that lifestyle a bit sad, even empty, even though Twinnie Halpern, I like, and Emily Gilmore, I admire and love. But Shira knows–and I fear–that when all's said and done, I may very well end up like her if I "settle down" with Logan, my aspirations be damned. That, or I don't end up with Logan at all. That's why she can afford to be so smug.

"Logan!" She pounced, minutes upon our entry, kissing Logan on both cheeks. "You look wonderful," she beamed, automatically straightening his bowtie.

"Thanks Mom, you look well yourself."

"I've been waiting for you because I'm dying to introduce you to the Fitzgerald girl–do you remember her? Her father was former publisher of _The London Times?_ Well she's here on a break from her studies in _Les Roche_ in Switzerland…"

She looked positively predatory, on the prowl for a good match for her son.

"…She'll be taking over the management of Plaza Athenee in Paris, you know, she's absolutely brilliant. And not knowing anyone here, I thought…"

"Mom."

"…that you could keep her company for tonight…"

"Mom! Stop it, stop doing that. Rory's here with me."

As this exchange was going on, I counted the marble pillars around the room while mentally testing to see how many "Fitzgerald-Huntzberger"s I can roll of my tongue in 5 seconds. It is quite a tongue-twister.

Keeping a smile plastered on her face, Shira finally turned to me and said, "Why, Rory. Of course, how rude of me. It's just that I haven't seen you in a while. Glad to see you've decided to tag along this evening. I hardly ever see you at our parties."

"I work at the _Times,_ Shira. I'm part of this company. So _we_ actually invited _you._"

"That's right. It must have slipped my mind. So how's the job coming along? Not tiring you out, I hope? Wouldn't want you to lose that youthful look too early now. I dare say Logan would be disappointed. Why, he needs someone as beautiful and accomplished as him in every way…" Laugh-laugh-laugh. Logan clutched my hand tighter.

"Mom–"

"Work is wonderful, Shira. You should try it sometime. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I see people I must say hello to." I turned to leave, feeling like I swallowed a dozen knives down my throat.

Just for kicks, I had the urge to drop the bomb and tell her, crudely, that her precious son whom she's saving for Ms. Fitzgerald, has knocked me up. She would have paled. Fainted, perhaps. Threatened to sue me? For hoodwinking her son into marrying me and thereby ruining his prospects. Pre-nups would be flying out of lawyers' offices. But that's just fodder for my fantasies I guess.

Logan caught up with me and murmured against my hair, "Don't let her get to you, Rory. You'll always be good enough for me." _Good enough. _

As always, I sensed people were looking at us, or rather at Logan. Wondering who he was with. Who I am. I've had my face splashed on society pages a number of times in the last few years. I hate it. I'd rather have my face on an op-ed column, or my by-line under the title of a really important story. Not my face half-hidden by my purse shielded against the flashing cameras, half-running with Logan into a building as if we were being pursued. I am _just_ Rory Gilmore. At that moment, I had to get away from him.

Patting his hand on my arm, I smiled at him. "Let's catch up with each other later, okay? I think I'd like to hang out for a while with Sharon and Tony over by the crudités. You go hobnob and ham it up with the head honchos."

"Some fancy use of alliteration there, Ace. Okay, don't go too far."

"I'll be within radar, if you need me to rescue you from Ms. Frenchie Fitzgerald," I cracked, smiling weakly.

And then he does what I was hoping he wouldn't do, not in a place like that. He leaned over to kiss me, his arm automatically pulling me against him. I turned my face ever so slightly so that his kiss landed on my cheek. "Logan, not here," I murmured. His face morphed from smiling to confused to blank. "Right," he said, "I forgot." He released me and nodded quite formally, then turned to mingle in the crowd. As always, I ended up wishing–belatedly–that I could have just let him kiss me.

"Wow, girl. You sure know how to keep a secret. So much for trying to wangle a hot date for the prim reporter girl. Who would have thought, Logan _Huntzberger?_ So spill, have you been dating long?" Sharon immediately asked. Quite innocently I'm sure, but the question–already so expected–still made me squirm.

"Uh-hm, date?...no, not really, no. We were in Yale together, and we get together a few times, every now and then. You know, lunch, hanging out, catch-up stuff. We worked together at the Yale Daily News, too. And our families know each other quite well…We're more casual than anything really, um, good friends, I'd say…" _Oh, and did I mention that I'm carrying his child?_

I did tell you that this was a story of rejection and betrayal, heart. My rejection and betrayal of Logan, that is.

"Really." Tony looked at me pointedly. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much, Sharon. Huntzberger rarely brings anyone to these sorts of shindigs. You are the chosen one this lucky evening. You must have done something to earn the honor…" he leered sarcastically.

I put on an air of indifference and waved his comment away with my hand. "So which one looks more like a potentially edible morsel, the pink poufy thing, or the green leafy thing?…" I had to put something in my mouth, fast.

"It wouldn't be so bad, Rory," Sharon said, raising her brows up and down suggestively. "For a friends-with-benefits kind of arrangement, Huntzberger's quite the friend. I'd kill to have that kind of _connection_," she winked conspiratorially.

_And I would die to be thought of as using Logan as a "connection". _Especially since Mitchum had ditched my journalistic aspirations and abilities with much finesse when I interned for him at the Stamford Gazette. (Yes, Mitchum would be your grandfather-to-be.) If you knew me at all by now, heart, you'd know that this hurt me more than Shira's jabs or condescension. And while the drama has long passed and I no longer feel like throwing up when I see him, more than anything, I still have the need to show him–and myself–that I do have _it_ (whatever it was that he said I "ain't got") as a journalist. My eyes roamed the room frantically, needing to latch onto a new topic of conversation, when my glance fell on Logan with Mitchum. Speak of the devil.

"Hey, Rory? I was only kidding, I'm sorry." Sharon was squeezing my arm. "You've become pale as a ghost."

I shook my head, then laughed. "Yeah, what a struggling reporter wouldn't do to land a Logan Huntzberger, right? I'd probably marry him. Poor thing, he's actually been fighting me off." _Rejection and betrayal. _One more time and the cock should be crowing, if my memory of St. Peter in Finn's Passion of the Christ serves me right.

"So give it to me. What was he like in college? Was he already that gorgeous? He's so…elusive and mysterious," Sharon pressed in hushed tones.

"Oh, please. For all we know he could be gay," Tony interjected with disinterest. "I'd rather know if back then he was already writing the kind of stuff he's writing now."

"He was jumping off seven-storey scaffolds, actually," I replied. _With me._ Can you believe it, heart? Little ol' me having a bit of a wild side after all. I owe that to your Dad. But now I feel like he's staring up at me from far below, waiting. Me stupidly clutching an umbrella, and you. Waiting for a safety net. I was beginning to feel awful about how the evening was unfolding.

"And on that intriguing note, I think I'll say bye for now. Enjoy the rest of the evening, you two. Take notes of Sulzberger's speech for me."

"Whaat? Rory, you just got here, come on!" Sharon pleaded. "No fair. Jumping off scaffolds…so the thing about him being a daredevil of sorts is true. God, I love him!"

_So do I._ "Sorry guys. I do feel like I have something coming on, which would explain my creepy pallor. Or maybe it's this stuff I'm eating. The pink thing definitely tastes better than the green."

I left without telling your Dad, leaving him a text message on his mobile instead. _Will wait up for you at home. Didn't want to disturb you.- R. _He's used to me doing this; he knows I'm not crazy about big parties, nor his mother, nor seeing my face on the society page.

I told you the tale was sordid, heart. Complicated enough for me, without you being added to the mix. Why can't Logan be just…_Logan? _(His reply to my text message: _Save me a slice of pizza. The food here sucks. _Now how regular is that?)

I've worked hard to get where I am now, heart. I know it isn't much yet, but I've had my little achievements. Fresh from my highly competitive Reston Fellowship, I was a shoo-in at the Times, and I've been turning in pretty solid stories. My editor likes me, and things are going by the book–_my_ book, anyway. And if I marry Logan now, if people realize just how long we've been together and that we're having you, the heir/heiress to the "heir-apparent"…then I'm afraid that everything that I've done in my grown-up life will mean nothing or be seen as false. That I would be swallowed up and disappear in the larger-than-life world of Logan Huntzberger.


	2. Broken

February 9

Why am I even writing you? As if I won't be seeing you.

I've heard your heart, though. And its real. You're real. I think I need to be reminded of that. You know how memories just fade away into nothing, into a wispy, fragile, cobwebby blur, when you have no one to talk to them about? How a day can just cease to exist if there's no one to ask, _how was your day? What happened today?_

There are enough people to tell stories to about my days: Logan and Lorelai, Paris and Lane and Olivia, Sharon and Tony and Greg at work. But we don't talk about you.

That's why I write.

-----

February 12

I called in sick today. I feel like hell, like 10 times my worst Ms.Patty-Founder's-Day-Punch hangover. I've been drifting in and out of sleep, waking up confused from dreams I can't remember. Baby dreams. And tired, I feel so. Dead. Tired. Getting up on my jelly legs is torture, more so because I retch every time I do. So I've buried myself in the dark tunnel of blankets on my bed, waiting for Logan to discover my remains. Dr. Thornton says the nausea and fatigue are normal in the first 12-16 weeks. But I'm there, aren't I, at the home stretch of this torturous 4 months? I had called her, desperate for anything she could give me that can take this away. (She said, "try crackers". Crackers. Seriously!) She also explained that stress can worsen the symptoms, make my hormones go haywire. _Have you been stressed, Rory? _

Stressed? Let's see: I haven't seen Logan in four days. I travelled to California and back earlier in the week to cover a Republican convention, and narrowly missed my deadline writing up a serendipitous scoop on the Congressman's still-not-publicized disagreement with the President over environmental policy. And our little secret, heart–does that count as a source of stress?

_Damn it, how can something the size of a peanut wreak so much havoc in my life? _I've called in sick too many times in the last 6 weeks. I'm never sick. God, I miss Mom. Crap, I feel like throwing up again.

"Ace? Rory, oh no, are you okay?"

His voice broke through my consciousness, and that was how your Dad found me in the darkened room, curled up in a fetal position on our bed. He took me in his arms, my unshowered and sour-mouthed self, and kissed my hair. And my tears flowed as if some dam broke. I cried, cried, until his shirt got all wet and my shoulders heaved and my breathing fell short. Until I was empty inside. Which of course, I'm not. I contain a peanut heart, and it had taken over my body, my world.

I told him I had a bad case of stomach flu. Again.

-----

February 13

I stared at his profile as he drove, the wind rushing in through the slightly opened window to mess with his hair. He emptied his crazy schedule of everything to spend the Valentine weekend with me. What did I do to deserve Logan?

"What?"

"What's what?"

"You're awake. You feel okay?"

"Better. Or at least the world _is_ actually moving now, not just in my head. Though good thing we have a couple of paper bags…" I turned to look at the bags of CDs, DVDs, and presents stowed at the back seat. "In case I need a designer sickbag."

"Yuck, Ace. Just give a guy fair warning so he can at least hold up your hair and get his shoes out of harm's way."

"Aw, you don't fool me. Not after last night. That sponge bath? Heavenly. You missed your calling you know. You should have been a candystriper. Now what I wouldn't do to see you wear a…" That earned me a couple of jabs to my side, ticklish enough for me to try and keep his arm at bay. "Hey, watch the driving!"

"Then watch the cute comebacks, Ace." He gave me a sidelong grin, and we settled into companionable silence.

"Thank you for this, Logan. It's a great idea. I think we all need a break."

"Yup. At least Lorelai seemed to think so. She gave me a rundown of all the babysitting duties she'll be turning over to you for the next two days, from milk feedings to nap times to diaper duty."

"Seeing as I'm still convalescing, you would just have to take up your share with Ian, like the loving and supportive boyfriend that you are…" my voice faded away in mock weakness, while I pondered the irony of sharing babysitting duties with your Dad who doesn't know he's a Dad.

Logan had called Lorelai to ask whether we could head over to their beautiful 3-acre at-the-border-of-Stars Hollow home for the weekend. When I protested about taking him away from his work, he argued that I had been feeling under the weather way too often and needed a break, and he knew I'd been hankering to see my Mom and 1 year-old baby brother Ian. While a part of me fretted over seeing my all-knowing mother, I was happy at the thought of being with family and with Logan for two whole days. And God knows I–and you–are in need of Luke's scrumptious (you-wouldn't-think-it's-healthy) home-cooked meals.

Such as the tender roast beef and mashed potatoes and dinner rolls and corn on the cob and chocolate sundae for dessert. Did you enjoy that, heart? I felt like I was young again, reborn.

Over dinner, your Dad and Luke were talking about possible nature trips he can plan over the summer, involving hiking and fishing and the like, or what Lorelai referred to as "wild outdoor cavemen activities".

"Rory and I went to the Adirondacks last year, and I'm positive you'd enjoy it…even you, Lorelai," Logan had added, catching my mother's sorry attempt to look interested.

"Logan knows an excellent guide. The lakes and the falls were absolutely beautiful, that was my favorite part," I agreed.

"Huh. First cocoa over coffee, then, a distinctly Luke-like appreciation of nature, and now, persuading me to sweat and hike over hill and dale without a care for the blisters that will no doubt damage my perfectly pedicured toes! I'm this close to sticking my butter knife into you and holding you two hostage until you tell me who you are and what you have done with my daughter!" Lorelai waved said butter knife at me, mocking my newfound interest in the outdoors.

"There are shorter treks and lower peaks, Mom," I replied with mock condescension.

"Are you insinuating that I won't be able to manage a simple walk up a mountain?"

"Yes."

"Good. You are my daughter after all. And no thank you, I'd rather wait for my man back here on my lumpy couch surrounded by the old comforts of my DVDs and all-purpose whipped cream and chocolate syrup."

"There's always sleeping under the stars…" I added innocently.

"Ooh, now that sounds like something I'd enjoy with Luke. And it goes well with whipped cream and chocolate syrup, too."

"Gah, spare me!" I said, covering my ears. Ian in the high chair next to me started to cry. "See, even Ian's disgusted!"

Everyone laughed at that as I removed Ian from his chair and started to bounce him gently, standing on my lap. It seems he was just bored from being confined to the chair for too long. Logan leaned closer next to me make funny faces at Ian, his hand playing casually with my hair.

The five (six?) of us settled into an easy quiet, where baby cooing, tap water running, and dishes clattering punctuated ongoing banter. Three years ago to the day we spent a weekend at Martha's Vineyard, and while Luke and Logan eventually bonded over lobster, things were decidedly chillier that winter. This time–dare I jinx it?–it felt like all was right in this side of the Hollow.

Maybe just for this weekend of Hearts, I can pretend that our life is always like this: your Dad and I reading a book with after-dinner coffee (or in my case, hot cocoa), our legs propped up on the coffee table, touching, being warmed by the fire. With a now-sleeping baby spread across both our laps. I, too, eventually fell asleep with my head on his shoulder and dreamed my baby dreams.

-----

February 14

It was our last night here. Mom and I went out on the porch after dinner, swaddled in wooly blankets, and watched Luke and Ian with Logan out on the lawn. We sat on the swinging bench sharing a tub of ice-cream, our feet tucked under us. Luke was showing your Dad his new project–a new boat he was building, presumably for Ian. (Your Dad has a thing for boats, see.) "Crossing my fingers the boat and its maker won't go the way of its predecessor," Lorelai had joked, referring to the boat that Luke's father was building but had left unfinished because he died. The boat was still sitting there in their garage, finished now but unused for sentimental reasons.

As Luke smoothed his hand over the wood on a particular spot on the boat, he absentmindedly held out Ian for Logan to take. Logan easily took the heavily bundled-up baby in his arms, like it was the most natural thing. Ian seemed to wonder, staring at Logan the way one-year-olds stare unblinkingly at some shiny new toy. His tiny fingers pondered and fluttered against Logan's nose. As if sensing Ian's hesitation, Logan began rubbing the baby's back with his free hand without breaking his conversation with Luke. After a moment, Ian finally blinked and burrowed his dark head in the crook of Logan's neck, soothed into drowsiness by the low voices and the back rubbing.

I, however, couldn't blink, couldn't tear my eyes away from the vision of your Dad carrying a baby in his arms. Tiny dark head against blonde. As if he'd been carrying one-year-old babies all his life. I'd never seen him this way before. Or maybe I have, with Ian, with Sarah–Honor's daughter–but it never meant anything to me then. Never tugged at _my heart._

"So when are you going to tell him?" Mom asked from out of the blue, shattering the stillness and my false sense of security.

"Huh? God, this ice-cream is like ice," I complained, stabbing it with my spoon, marveling at–and cursing–my mother's all-knowing sixth sense. I can hardly keep anything from her, though God knows I've tried countless times. From the red sock I left in the washer that turned all the whites to pink, to my being bullied in school for being a freak, to (nearly) all the sordid details of my first crush, first kiss. (Okay, maybe I didn't try all that hard to keep things from her.)

And now, you.

"Tell who what?" I asked casually.

"The _who_ is Logan, and the _what_ is that he's going to be a father," Lorelai casually replied in turn.

I couldn't help it, the tears started welling up in my eyes, and my throat started tightening. Eating ice-cream in zero degree weather didn't help any. All in all I found it difficult to say anything.

"How did you know?" I managed to murmur, weakly.

"Never underestimate the proverbial 'maternal instinct', hon," she answered lightly. "How can I have borne you for 9 months, go into excruciating labor for 14 hours, and then feed and house you under my roof for 19 years, and not know that you, my offspring, is about to have an offspring?" A futile stab at humor.

I didn't find it funny at all. And I couldn't give her a snappy comeback. _If you can tell, can he? Can everyone, _I wondered, anxiously and instinctively rubbing my stomach.

"You've been having the 'stomach flu' off and on for the past 3 months," Lorelai continued, using air quotes, as I remained mute. "I know you travel a lot kid, but I think the state of water sanitation in most parts of the world has improved much since the 1800s. And even taking into account all the disgusting images that stomach flu conjures up, I look at you and I see a…a _glow _that maybe only a woman who had been pregnant twice–the first time 24 years ago, the last time only a year ago–would recognize. You'll always have a glow to me, angel, but now you look blooming virginal, pardon the irony."

"It's the cold," I interrupted, putting my hands up to my cheeks.

"It's the baby hormones, working their magic, making you all pink and adorable," Lorelai replied, pinching my cheek. Then, more seriously: "You've also been staring for the last 10 minutes at Logan carrying Ian in his arms. I know my son is cute, but not so cute as to inspire wet eyes and faraway looks."

I sat stiffly on the bench, the ice-cream dripping from my spoon onto my lap. Lorelai scooted over and put her arm around me, squeezing my arm.

"And Rory, you've stopped drinking coffee. Are you now sufficiently impressed by my deductive abilities, my dear Watson?"

I finally hung my head and started to cry in earnest. "Mom, I'm so sorry…I'm so sorry…" I whispered under my breath.

"Oh my God. What on earth do you have to be sorry about, Rory? If this is about the coffee, believe me, Luke at least will be happy there's one less junkie in the family," Lorelai said. "Hon, I honestly do not see why you felt you had to keep this hidden. I'd understand if you were 16, I'd have killed you," she continued, bluntly. "Or Luke would have killed Logan. But now…Why?"

I still couldn't speak, swiping at the tears that fell to my lap, mixing with the drops of ice-cream. Mom took my cheek and forced me to look at her. "Are you not happy about this?" she asked matter-of-factly, blue eyes staring into blue.

"What do you think, Mom?" I muttered with some defeat. _What you can see in my eyes? _"Maybe you can tell me. Because I don't know exactly how I feel. Except that I feel…all confused, it's all a crazy jumbled mass of, of…afraid–Mom, I'm _afraid._ Okay? And sometimes, I'm excited too, I mean, a _baby!_ It has a heart, it's beating, and it's amazing. But, but…a baby! It's, it's–overwhelming, and I feel sick a lot, many times I don't think I can handle it, not now, not at this point in my life–in our life, Logan's and mine. There's too much going on and so much is at stake. And pregnant, unexpectedly, its such a surprise, I still can't believe it, it's all so–so surreal…and I feel stupid, you know, like _how on earth can this have happened?_ I'm so careful, compulsively careful about this, you know me Mom, and at my age for God's sake, slipping up like this. I just don't know what would happen when I have it, I mean, things are bound to change, everything will change…and _Logan,_ God, what will he say? What's gonna happen now?..."

I was rambling, going on and on, out of breath, but I couldn't stop talking, couldn't stop the words and feelings from spilling out of my mouth. Lorelai was the first person I could talk to–finally–about you, after all. And as I blabbered and cried incoherently, Mom continued to rub my arm, shushing me every now and then. I really did feel like a baby.

The silence that followed was punctuated by my hiccups. A brief wave of panic came over me as Luke and Logan–still carrying the sleeping Ian–started walking back towards the house. Lorelai waved them away, yelling "Gilmore bonding moment, SHOO, GO AWAY!" and the boys thankfully obeyed, skirting the main house and going to the back. But not before I caught Logan throwing a surreptitious, worried look my way.

"I didn't plan this," I finally said. I'm guessing that I missed taking my pill a few times; traveling across time zones put my schedule out of whack, my and Logan's hormones into sex overdrive.

"Rory. You cannot plan everything. I realize you have yet to be caught off-guard by laundry day and have never been without fresh underwear, but beyond that…Life just happens, sweetie. Even the best laid plans have to give way to things just happening, to human slip-ups and frailties and relationships and the weather and love…and they can be amazing things, Rory. You said so yourself…the heartbeat. Pretty amazing, huh?"

"Yes it is," I whispered.

"Doesn't it make you feel like…I dunno, like GOD, wholly responsible for this tiny little thing?"

"Okaay…that certainly eases the 'fear factor', thanks a lot."

"Seriously. If you could set aside your brainy, obsessive-compulsive, sensible little head for a moment here, how do you really feel Rory? What does your heart say?"

I closed my eyes for a moment, thought of you. Pieces of me joined with pieces of Logan–blonde-haired-blue-eyed, or brown-haired-and-eyed, or whatever–my heart feels full of the wonder of it all. Perhaps my heart is the sensible one, not my brain.

"I'm not sorry about the baby," I finally said, folding my hands over my stomach, over you. "But I think I'm sorry that this has to happen _now._ There are so many other things going on. Maybe if it were, I don't know–5 years from now, I'd be more ready. You should know how this feels, don't you?" My mother had me when she was 16, heart. Talk about bad timing.

"Rory, I was in high school when I had you. And all I knew was that Christopher made me feel good, when Emily–everything else, made me miserable. My situation was so different from where you're at now. You're 24, a Yale graduate, with a promising career in journalism at the _Times,_ and a paycheck that's probably bigger than mine. Heck, come to think of it, I don't even really get a paycheck! And the _piece-de-resistance_–Rory, you have Logan, you've been together for 4 years! He loves you, and he will love your baby. Your situation doesn't compare to mine at all."

"It does, too, in the sense that…I know how much you've sacrificed for me. You put your whole life on hold to have me. You postponed school, your career…your dream of having your own inn…you set aside love, the 'whole package'. You gave up so many things for me…"

"I didn't give up anything, Rory. I may have postponed some things…but with you I had new goals, new dreams. I just moved on, and I made my choices based on what I thought was best for you, what was best for me at that time. Sure, it wasn't–it won't be–always easy. But that's life. And now I have everything I've ever wanted. I have my Inn, I have Luke, I have Ian."

"After 20 years," I pointed out, quietly. "You know, there's a reason why women these days don't have kids til they're well into their thirties, if they have kids at all," I continued. "Christiane Amanpour herself had a baby at 40! I feel like my life is just beginning, that I'm at the threshold of something big, and then everything has to come to a halt."

_God, is that me talking? That's it. Your mother is a certified selfish, self-centered…selfish person. I can't stand myself._

"Rory, you don't stop living your life or your dreams when you have a child. I thought you of all people should know. I lived–we lived that life. Don't you think we had a good life, that you had a happy childhood? Listening to you, I feel like I've traumatized you or something such that you've become so reluctant, so afraid of having a child."

I could detect the hint of hurt in Lorelai's voice. I hugged my Mom then, tightly. "Oh Mom, no, it's not that at all, _no._"

"Do not think for a moment I spent those 20 years languishing in despair and regret, awaiting the moment I could be set free from the bondage of motherhood, to 'finally live my life'," Lorelai continued, with customary dramatic flair. "I loved–love–being a Mom to you. I will not trade any second of those 20 years for a stab at…at…I don't even know what! I don't know what my life would have been like if I didn't have you, and I wouldn't care to know. You are my favorite mistake."

"And you're the best pal a girl could have. You're the best Mom. Far from traumatizing me, maybe I'm just thinking you're a tough act to follow."

"You're the class act in this family, Rory. You're an 'Ace' in everything you do, if I may borrow Logan's very appropriate moniker. You'll be a wonderful, amazing mom. I can see you, jetsetting to Fes and London or the North Pole and back, receiving your Pulitzer, and coming home in time to order a hot take-out for your husband and read your baby a bedtime story."

I smiled wanly at Lorelai's reassurance. I've "aced" school and work but that's pithy; they do not quite match up to motherhood.

Lorelai pulled away from me abruptly, held me by my shoulders. "Oh God. There's something seriously freaky about me being a mother and a grandmother in the span of two years. This may very well scar both our children for life."

We stared at each other for a moment, letting the idea sink in. _Our children. _"Freaky," I nodded in agreement.

"Now, about Logan. When are you going to tell him?"

"I've planned to, countless times. It's just never…I don't know, I'm such a basket case."

"What do you think he'll do, hon? What are you afraid of?"

"He'll ask me to marry him," I blurted out, twisting the edge of my blanket.

"Hm. Wow. Now, we can't have that, can we?" Lorelai asked with a horrified look. "We can't have a blonde, handsome media mogul who loves you to death and who _you_ love to death drop on one knee and propose marriage now, good God, no! Perish the thought!"

"Stop it Mom…don't mock me."

"I don't understand. Are you thinking he'll just want to marry you because of the baby? This ain't the Victorian Era, hon. I doubt he's feeling obligated to make a decent woman out of you. It's far too late for that, anyway."

"Actually, he's asked me to marry him before." Another secret revealed.

Lorelai raised her eyebrows in genuine surprise. "Oh. And…?"

"And I refused him. And now, we're having a baby. And he'll ask me again. And again, I wouldn't know what to say."

With that, I stood up from the bench and walked out to the grassless lawn, Lorelai still speechless in my mind. I didn't feel like explaining things to her, things I could hardly understand myself. How I can love someone so much, but fear being part of his life. I hugged my blanket around me as I meandered around the small frozen pond, Lorelai's little skating rink in the winter. Luke's fishing hole in the summer. I wonder about the summer.

Are my dreams so much bigger than anyone else's? Than Mom's? Logan's? So big they cannot contain you? Funny, in the last weeks, the only recurring dream I've had is of your heartbeat.

As I walked back to the house, I saw Logan and Lorelai framed at the window; Logan laughing with sleeping Ian still attached to his hip, Lorelai probably regaling him with yet another funny Ian anecdote.

I hope I can be to you the mother Lorelai is to me, heart. That I can be strong enough to make the kind of sacrifices she made. Strong enough to face an unknown future life as a mother to you. And Logan? Right now I only hope I can be fearless enough to tell him about you. And that I'll know how to answer his questions when I do.

-----

That night, as his hands and mouth roamed over my body, I willed him to _know._ That as he explored the dips and curves, valleys and peaks he already knows by heart, he would see–hear–something new, something different. But even as I poured out my self, my fears and hopes and love in that one incredible moment of release, I knew he still wouldn't know about you. Because he trusts me; that I give back–in our lovemaking, in everything–as much as he gives to me. That I wouldn't willfully hold back.

_Tomorrow,_ I thought, as I very softly caressed his sleeping face with my hand, the light from outside our window reflecting against the blonde of his hair, the ring on my finger. A decidedly un-engagement ring that he gifted me with for Valentines. Tiny diamonds, shaped like a tiny heart.

-----

Before I had the chance to talk to Logan, you took matters into your own little hands. February 15, 5:23 in the afternoon, lugging my luggage (now I know why it's called _luggage_) down the stairs to the car.

I wonder how much of a difference it would have made if I had been the one to tell him. Instead of you.

You were red against the white of my legs, warm against the cold of winter air. You announced yourself, _I'm here, Dad._ While I conveniently lost consciousness, unable to see how he might have reacted to the knowledge of you.

-----

When I came to, the first thing I saw were the two machines standing steadfastly by my bedside, flashing numbers and lines charting the patterns of our two hearts in neon green liquid crystal display. That's how I knew I was alright. That you were alright.

"Hey, you!" A cool hand grasped mine tightly. It was Lorelai. "How are you feeling?"

"Weird. Kinda like I'm floating." I rubbed my eyes til they focused. "What am I on?"

"LSD. I am now morphing into a kaleidoscope of flashing colors and lights before your eyes…" Lorelai began to wave her head and hands from side to side in slow-motion. "Are you seeing shiny happy people yet?"

"None at the moment. But if you go on like this Mom, I'm afraid you'll soon be fading to black again," I murmured weakly. I felt woozy, like I was resurfacing from someplace deep, and my mother's antics were jarring.

"Sorry hon. They're giving you medication that would help the baby hang on to you a little stronger, a little longer."

Of course. The baby. In those moments between consciousness and unconsciousness, I forgot. _How are you, kid? _I started feeling around my abdomen, as if I could touch you with my fingers.

"The doctor said it was a threatened abortion. It happens to a certain percentage of women during their first trimester, sometimes a little beyond that, like you. But don't worry your drug-addled pretty head. You'll be fine, so long as you take the prescribed bed rest for a few weeks. Lucky for you, you're a Gilmore, and you have a special knack for bed rest."

_Threatened abortion._ That's a funny-sad-ironic way of putting it. You threatened to abort ship, to abandon, to bring to an end. Call it what you will. I'm guessing someone's been feeling neglected. Or impatient. Tired of waiting for your crazy Mom to move on with her life huh, heart?

"You hungry?" Lorelai interrupted my silent reverie.

"A bit, yeah."

"Hungry's good. What are you craving for? Chocolate pudding? Chili fries? Cheeseburgers? Your wish is my command. I think I even have unpopped Pop Tarts stashed in my purse."

I winced, the thought of eating the long-abandoned remnants in my mother's purse unappetizing. "Not _that_ hungry, Mom. Water will do for now."

I looked around the room, my eyes instinctively searching for him. He wasn't there.

"He's being wheeled into the operating room as we speak," Lorelai said. "He's had a heart attack. The shock of it all."

My facial expression was probably enough for Lorelai to look remorseful and take it back.

"Oh Rory, I'm sorry. You know I become especially inappropriate in times like this. Logan is sitting outside in the waiting room. He's been here the whole time, with you, while you were asleep. He didn't leave you for a sec, I practically had to force-feed him your jello and push him to take a bathroom break every now and then."

"He's not here now." I turned my head to the side so Lorelai couldn't see the tears that were forming fast, dampening the starchy white of hospital linen.

"I am." Logan's voice from the doorway.

"I'll go get coffee for me, water for you," Lorelai said as she kissed my forehead and left me and your Dad alone in the room.

He sat at the foot of my bed and just looked at me. I probably looked like hell. His eyes were sleepless, tired, dry. But he looked at me like he loved me. At least I thought so.

"How do you feel?" he finally spoke. He touched my foot under the covers, ever so lightly.

"Like I've just woken up from a hundred-years sleep. Though far be it that I look like Sleeping Beauty, I know." Like my mother, I can be especially inappropriate in times like this.

He cleared his throat. He seemed nervous. "The baby will be okay, and you will be, too," he finally said. "I–I don't think I am, though."

"Oh Logan…" So many, many things that needed to be said. _Please forgive me. I love you. I'm so sorry. _All I could do was stretch out my hand for him to take. I needed to touch him, or rather, I needed him to touch me. He took my hand, gave it a small squeeze, then dropped it.

"Don't talk, Rory. Just let me say what I need to say, before I lose my nerve."

"Okay," I murmured. I looked at the hand he dropped; it felt cold.

"We're having a baby," he said unnecessarily.

"Yes we are."

"And I'm happy, I really am, about the baby." For a moment, his face broke into that brilliant smile of his. It was so bright it cast a glimmer of hope in my heart. I wish I could keep that smile in a jar and open it for you one day: Look how happy your Dad was to know about you.

"I'm still trying to wrap my head around it…I mean, it's all so new…for me, anyway. But that's the one thing I'm sure of tonight, Rory. I'm happy about the baby."

"Logan, I'm so glad," I breathed in relief.

"Didn't you think I would be? Is that why--"

I opened my mouth to speak, but he held up his hand to stop me from answering.

"No–wait. I shouldn't even be asking why you didn't tell me. I've thought about nothing else in the last 6 hours. I think I know you enough to understand you more than you think, Rory. But you not telling me means you don't know or understand _me_ well enough."

"I was just so…overwhelmed. Logan, I was scared and confused. Please. I was going to tell you…" Lame. So lame.

"When? When you've figured out things by yourself?" His voice was calm, and it gave me a sense of impending doom.

"I was trying to. Figure things out. And I know I went about it the wrong way. I'm so sorry, please forgive me."

"Forgive you." He shrugged. "What's to forgive? That you didn't trust me enough? That's what it boils down to, and unfortunately, you can't say 'it won't happen again' to that. You didn't trust me Rory. You were unsure or afraid, and as usual, you wanted to deal with it on your own. You didn't know how I would take it, what I would do, and God forbid–maybe I'd ask you to marry me again. And we both know you wouldn't know how to deal with _that._"

"I trust that we love each other," I countered.

"Do you?"

"Logan…how could you doubt that?" I whispered fiercely. I struggled to sit up, but I felt dizzy. He came closer to me, even as I felt him him moving further and further away.

"Shh, no, don't get up, Rory." He held my hand, finally, and brushed my hair away from my face, the strands that had stuck to my dried-up tears. "I'm sorry I'm upsetting you."

"I made a horrible mistake, Logan. But tell me we can get past this and move on."

"I know you love me." He paused, weighing his words. "It's just not enough anymore, Rory. Not when you shut me out like this, hiding the fact that I'm going to be a father from me. God, do you know how that feels? I was scared out of my mind when you started bleeding and lost consciousness. Then to just have Lorelai grab the phone from my hand when I called the paramedics and hear her tell that–that stranger, that you're pregnant…I was–I was scared and helpless and incredibly angry–at you, at Lorelai, at myself. Luke had to drive us here, because I was..." He shook his head at the memory.

"I was meaning to tell you when we got home. I had told my Mom only this weekend, too…if that makes any difference."

"This isn't just about the baby. It's us. You not attending Huntzberger functions, for instance, or you not attending your functions with me. You don't want to be seen with me, and all this traveling and time apart which I hate, it happens to be convenient arrangement for you. Oh, and right–you not marrying me. I get it, Rory. It's not about Mitchum or Shira, because you can deal with them. It's not even just about this whole idea of "settling down". You don't want to settle down with _me_. You don't want my life. And you don't want to have anything to do with the Huntzberger name, because you don't want it to taint or hurt your career."

_So true. I don't want to have anything to do with the Huntzberger name, because I don't want it to taint or hurt my big, fat ego._

"And I've tried to understand that," Logan continued. "The thing is, Rory, I _am_ a Huntzberger, and I can't ever get away from that even if I wanted to. There are certain things about that name and my life that I detest–the trappings, the obligations, the fine print on my birth certificate. But that's part of who I am. You can't just take the parts that you like and ignore the rest. I love you, but I need you to be really part of _my life_, Rory. The whole package. And I wish you could have known and trusted, without my having to tell you, that I'll never ask you to give up your dreams or anything you loved. I don't want you to change, be like Shira–hell, no! But you held back, you doubted me."

As always, I'm amazed at how well he could read me, better than I can myself. How he could turn the jumbled mess of my feelings and neuroses to stark, frightening clarity. I didn't know how to respond with the same honesty.

"As for me, I had thought–I trusted–that you could live with the complications of being with me, and being pregnant with my baby, because you loved me. But I guess I've been wrong."

It dawned on me then, what he was doing. "You're leaving me," I murmured. I thought that if I said it softly enough, maybe he won't hear, maybe he won't answer.

He didn't answer, not for a while. We listened to the beeping machines, his thumb running over my knuckles.

"I've spoken with Lorelai. She's not happy with me right now, I'm afraid. But I'll be in touch with her often; she's promised to let me know how you and the baby are, whether you need anything." His voice started to crack. "I really don't know if you'll accept anything from me, but just in case there's anything, I'm going to take care of…"

"It's _you_ I need–_we_ need, Logan. You!" My knuckles were white from holding his hand, desperately. Damn, my chest hurt. Every part of my body was feeling pain.

"Ace," he whispered. "I'm so sorry I can't give you what you want from me. Not anymore, not now, not for a while. I just–I need time, okay? Maybe when we're both…I don't know. Ready to move on, move forward. We'll find each other, we work in the same circle after all. And there's some time–5, 6 months, right? I hope I'll get to be with the baby when its finally here."

The baby. But not me. "Of course. He–she–is yours."

He gently extricated his hand from mine, and I turned to my side, away from him, terribly wounded but not quite surprised by his words. To think that a part of me had thought he would propose marriage to me when he found out. How silly.

"The doctor was here several times while you were asleep. He let me–I mean I heard…I'm glad I got to hear his–or her–heart." He bent down over me to kiss my stomach, once. _Did you feel that?_ Then he kissed my hair, my cheek. Still not facing him, I reached up a hand and held on to his face, felt that it was wet against mine. "Take care of yourself, Rory," he whispered. Then he stood up and was gone.

I stared at the machines by my bed, until the numbers dissolved and tears completely obliterated my vision. The steady blipping of my heart and yours on the machine lulled me back to sleep. To what I wished was a hundred-years sleep.


	3. Beat

February 27

"Hi Ace. Just wanted to check up on you. I hope you're well…" A pause. Throat clearing. "Uh, did you get the package I sent you? Anyway, take care of yourself. I miss you. Bye." Click. Rewind. _I miss you. _

-----

March 3

"Ace, you have an appointment with Dr. Thornton today at 3. Just reminding you, and not being able to get out of the office even for just an hour is no excuse. Don't forget to tell her about your stomach being insufferably itchy." _How the hell…? _"Lorelai told me," he continued, as if reading my thoughts. Then, the dratted click.

-----

March 7

"Rory, hey. It's me. Um. Guess that's all. Have a good day." Click. Rewind.

-----

March 13

"I read your article today, Ace, and I thought it was really good. You presented the implications of that environmental policy clearly enough, without being too controversial or safe." My chest literally feels like its puffing up with pride when he compliments me that way. "So…I guess you're about to go to bed, huh. Don't forget your vitamin. So, goodnight, then. Um…" More throat clearing. "Well. I miss you. God, I miss you Rory."

_Rewind, over and over and over. _

-----

March 18

Four weeks, 30 days, 726 hours, 43,583 minutes. Four phone conversations (which weren't, really) ranging from 22 seconds to 6 minutes (and only because his phone connection in London was bad. Four minutes of the 6 were static). Seven messages left on my answering machine, seven plus two more left by me on his.

This is how I've kept track of my life since Logan's been gone.

-----

March 20

You'd think New York city was small enough that your Dad and I couldn't help but run into each other. On the street, in the subway (which he doesn't actually take that often). In one of the dozen Starbucks dotting Manhattan (which I don't actually frequent anymore). But no, I haven't seen him since Valentines weekend at the hospital. I honestly wouldn't know how I would feel if I did. Happy? Sad? Ironically, not seeing him kept me sane, in suspended animation; I could pretend he was just on a long trip somewhere. That he was still mine.

I'm not the daughter of the self-professed Queen of de-Nial for nothing.

Which is why seeing him today (Friday, 4:36 pm) walking out of a building across the street from my spot by the window in a café on Broadway, was nothing short of overwhelming. My hand started shaking violently, that my decaf latte spilled onto my hand. The hot, searing pain from the liquid felt good; it numbed the shock and the dull aching that started to spread everywhere else.

He was wearing his olive green shirt with his gray suit, and he was loosening the knot of his tie (he's feeling hot). He squinted at his watch, scratched at the hair at the nape of his neck as he looked around. Oh God. He was waiting for someone.

Inexplicably–or predictably–my eyes started tearing up and I had the desperate need to weep. To crawl under the table with my latte and muffins and wallow then and there. But I couldn't tear my eyes away, heart, even as the tears started to fall. He was so beautiful, so _there._ How could I have been breathing the same air as he, all this time? How could my heart not have stopped beating? I needed so badly to just touch him. To remember how his cotton shirts would feel under my fingers, the soft of his hair that looked due for a cut. To remind myself that he was not just a disembodied voice floating through my machine, my apartment, my consciousness.

But he was waiting for someone. Would it be the blonde girl he was standing next to at the press release of the launch of HPG's latest magazine? Would it be the owner of the female voice I overheard in the background, during our all-too-brief phone conversation last week? I tortured myself.

He started pacing on the sidewalk as he punched numbers on his mobile. He was getting impatient. He spoke on the phone a few seconds, then looked behind him, a wide smile making his face look impish, boyish. I used to make him smile like that. I damned my irresistible urge to know, braced myself, and craned my neck to see who he was rewarding with that smile. It was…Finn. _Finn!_ No wonder he looked like a little boy, this was Finn after all, his accomplice in all his boyhood shenanigans.

(Who is Finn? Words escape me now, heart. Perhaps you'll find out someday, as I suspect he'll be who he is 'til he's an old, dying man. Perhaps. So in the meantime, I do have a few words: Aussie. Charming in a perverted-but-harmless sex-crazed way. Silly. Loves redheads. Dances naked with his underwear on his head. Yes, in front of me. Get the picture?)

He and Logan hugged each other, slapping each other's…butts, smacking at each other's heads. Oh well. My tears forgotten, I couldn't wipe the silliest, widest smile off my face. My relief was palpable, but it wasn't just that. Logan was happy, and seeing him laugh I was…yes, it seems crazy, seeing as I was miserable a moment ago. I was happy. I don't think I've ever felt this giddy in four–no, eight weeks.

Inadvertently, my hand went up to give them both a small, unseen wave as they walked away. God bless Finn. I paid my bill and decided to walk home. The suspended animation had been broken, and this single, innocuous, one-sided encounter with Logan gave me sudden clarity. A sense of freedom. I felt like flying across the sidewalk.

Which, of course, I couldn't, seeing as I now befit the expression "heavy with child". Passers-by smiled at me benevolently, not bothering to hide the glance they would throw at you. In elevators, strangers would actually be so bold as to touch my stomach (perhaps not realizing that the protruding tummy is, hello, still actually part of my body) as they murmured warm wishes and polite questions (when is it due? is it a boy or a girl?). It used to freak me out–the way everything about being pregnant freaked me out–but now, it's okay. More than okay, in fact. After the appointed period of bed rest, I shook off the secrecy surrounding your existence like my size 4 clothes, and bore you proud, heart. After nearly losing you, I needed you to be found and discovered.

And discover you they did. Lane with shrieks of excitement. Paris with shrieks of "why-the-hell-didn't-you-tell-me-don't-you-know-I'm-a-doctor!". Emily with characteristic disapproval (a baby should have a father!), but already planning a massive baby shower. Sharon with much hugging and fussing but incessant pumping for more information (I still haven't told her who the father is). My editor, Edgar, with subdued surprise and disappointment, but in the end, well-wishes and a few practical adjustments to my assignments. Work has been good. I still feel useful and challenged, despite the change in my schedule, timeframe, my gameplan. As Lorelai had said, my life goes on.

And part of my life is Logan. _When we're ready to move on, we'll find each other,_ he had said. As I walked home this afternoon, I knew that it was time that I do.

-----

April 4 (Week 21)

I wore a simple deep blue–almost black–floor-length sheath. The color seemed to make my eyes bluer, my neck and shoulders like alabaster. It molded to my body like second skin, hiding nothing. Not the slenderness of my arms nor the swell of my breasts. Not the curve of my waist, nor the protrusion of my belly. The dress was designed with a subtle slit in the middle, so that a hint of skin from my gently rounded abdomen peeked through. We were beautiful that night, heart; woman, all Woman. (Well, _pregnant_ Woman anyhow.) It effectively disguised the fact that I was an utter wreck inside.

If the dress elicited a gasp from my own mother, I had high hopes that it would elicit more than that from Logan. "You make me want to be pregnant again, if I could look as breathtaking as that," she said, fussing over my hair, which I had tied back to a sleek, low ponytail.

"Guess I have good genes," I quipped.

"That you do, my dear, that you do." She looked at my reflection in the mirror, noticing perhaps that I was chewing my lip to near bleeding, while sitting stiffly with my arms folded across my chest. "You nervous?"

"Huh. I'm only going to a formal Huntzberger function, at the Huntzberger mansion, _without_ an invitation. The entire population of blue-bloods in the East Coast will probably be in attendance, as will every major media company in America. There's the necessary posse of press and photographers, and heck, I'm sure Paris Hilton and Lindsay Logan will grace the occasion. So what do you think Mom? Of course I'm nervous!"

"Okay, okay! No need to get all surly. Don't forget, Logan will also be there. _Your_ Logan. Forget the posse and the meanies, just keep your eyes on the prize, sweetie. And hey, I just made a rhyme."

"I don't think this is such a good idea after all. Maybe I could just call him, set an appointment? Yes, I think that's what I'll do." I stood up and reached behind me to unzip my dress. "And this dress, it's too much…"

"Nuh-uh. No more running, Rory. Sit. SIT!" I obediently sat.

"Now, you thought of doing this for a reason. Do you seriously want to go through your Pro-Con list again? By placing yourself smack dab in the middle of Huntz country, you are sending Logan a clear message. That you're willing to be there, in his world, and to hell with what anybody else thinks or says. You're telling him you want to be part of his life. You and your baby together. There is no better way than you showing up there in all your glory, Rory. And man, I'm on a roll with these rhymes!"

"But I could just as well call him and tell him those things when we're alone, in private. There's no need to make a public spectacle."

"You've been dealing with each other in privacy and secrecy for years, Rory! Besides, where's the drama or the fun in that? We Gilmores are known for being dramatic."

"You mean _you're_ known for being dramatic, for shocking people." I retorted, rolling my eyes. "I, on the other hand, am known for doing things by the book."

"Which is why doing something so out of the ordinary-Rory, something like this, is more likely to send Logan straightaway into your arms tonight. I could even time the impact, if you like, count the minutes from your entrance 'til you've accomplished your mission. Or 'til you're up in his bedroom in that mausoleum, for that matter."

"Aw, that's just crude, Mom. So…" I hesitated to voice out the heart of my concern. "It's one thing to let him know that I want to be back in his life. But do you think he'll want me back? What if things have changed in the last 6 weeks? What if he feels differently about me now–you know, just the mother-to-be of his child."

I looked at my tummy forlornly. So far it's really just been you and me, kid. Will he want to be part of our lives, still?

Lorelai knelt before me and grasped my knees. "Please Rory. Put me out of my misery already. Your boyfriend calls me nearly _every_ single day. A couple of times before 8 in the morning, because he was apparently at the other side of the globe! And it would have been nice to talk about the weather or politics or George Clooney or whether its wrong for Ian to have a latte every now and then, but no, all he wants to talk about is you, how you are, are you eating well, are you sick, are you going for your check-ups, has your foot size changed because he wanted to buy you comfortable sneakers, and on and on and on!" Lorelai finished to catch her breath. "So hon, please do not ask me if I think his feelings have changed in the last 6 weeks."

-----

"May I have your name, madam?"

"Uh…er, Elizabeth Woodhouse," I blurted nervously, getting my Austen characters all mixed up. "or Emma Bennet, if you will."

"Excuse me?" The doorman looked confused.

It was the moment of truth, after all. "Ms. Gilmore."

"Ah…yes." He tapped approvingly on his clipboard. "Emily Gilmore? Please come in."

I drifted into the foyer, automatically glancing up at the all-too-familiar ceiling, painted with adorable cherubs but ending up imposing, intimidating. Somehow, I can't picture Logan–or you–running down those marble floors as a child. That place needs a serious splash of watercolor and muddy footprints.

I hung around the palm fronds, shadowed the waiters bearing drinks and salmon puffs (flicking the garnish off their trays), trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. But failing miserably. By the looks of things, it seemed like these people have never before been with a pregnant woman in their midst. Among the bedecked and bejewelled, salon-coiffed and spa-thin women, you and I are strange specimens. I didn't know what to do with myself. I wished I had brought along a book.

And then I saw him. As ever, in the middle of a small crowd. Still golden, and apparently, eligible. Someone cracked a joke, he laughed, and my heart turned to putty. Do I go to him? I couldn't, even if I wanted to, I was stuck, all the opening lines I had rehearsed down the drain. The doorman would have had to carry me over his shoulder and dump me in front of your Dad. So I decided to send him telepathic messages. I'm not kidding, heart. If you've been with someone for four years, you get a sense of where that person is and what he's thinking, even if you aren't in near proximity to each other. At least that was how it was with me and Logan. Before. It turned out to be an experiment of sorts.

_Look at me. Here, I'm standing between the waiter who looks like a gelled boy band member and the potted palm that looks fake but is actually real. No no no no, don't look at me, don't look at me, don't look at me, look over there! There at the blonde lush staring at you! No, damn it. Me! Look at me! _(Okay, fine. Color me confused.)

Logan, I'm here. I mean, _we._

And he looked. Right at me. He stared for a few moments, then looked away, downing his scotch and handing it distractedly to a passing guest (did he think he was hallucinating?). Then he looked at me again, and I lifted my hand in a small, pathetic wave. I couldn't read his face, but his eyes narrowed, became dark, as he walked slowly but purposively towards me. Was he happy? He wasn't smiling. Angry? Not scowling either.

Automatically, my hands reached across the narrowing space between us to meet his. And the feel of his fingers closing tightly around mine was such a reprieve from all the sadness and loneliness and guilt and fear and craziness of the last few months, that the tears were falling by the time he touched his forehead to mine.

"Rory?"

"Logan…hi."

"You're here."

"Yes I am."

"Why?"

"Because…I…" How to say it? _I'm ready now, let's go?_ "I…I saw you last week on Broadway when you met Finn, and--and how's Finn by the way? Is he still based in Paris? And I was in the coffee shop across the street–yes, I'm drinking coffee again, but just decaf, no need to get all bent out of shape, pregnant women are allowed two cups of caffeine a day you know, and anyway, it just struck me then that…that…well, not just then, I always knew that you…you and I…"

"Rory," he interrupted, wiping my tears with his thumb. "Why are you here?"

"I–I wanted to kiss you." _True,_ but…huh?

"Here? Now?" he murmured under his breath, our mouths already so close our breaths were touching.

"Yes. Please?"

And so I did, as he cupped my face and pulled me to him. Tentatively at first, reminiscent of our first kiss five years ago. Full of wonder and expectation, our lips sweetly exploring the other's, our tongues playing hesitantly as if we were, as yet, afraid of where our emotions could take us. Then we kissed knowingly, as Logan's arm wrapped around my waist and mine laced around his neck. We deepened the kiss, slanting our lips across and delving hungrily, impatiently, knowing exactly what each felt for the other and where that would take us.

We probably left no doubt in the spectators' minds about who we were to each other. (Nor about how you were made.)

But he pulled back abruptly, startled. "What…was that?"

"Well, it would hardly seem appropriate for _me_ to be kicking you while doing what we were doing. Maybe it doesn't like being all squished."

"God, sorry, was I hurting him? Her?"

"Nah. She just wants you to say hi to her, too."

"Her?" His hand rested on the hint of bare skin in my midsection, and I nearly gasped at the heat, the sensation.

"Either that or the young 'un is a bit shy about his privates being photographed via ultrasound. Which is unlikely if he takes at all after you…" I pressed myself ever so slightly against him, gratified that I was having the same effect on him as he was on me. I know, shameful.

"Ace," he groaned. "Not here," he said, quoting _my_ line and grabbing my hand, decisively striding across the hall, unmindful of the surreptitious looks and whispers being darted at our backs. He brought me out to the garden, the spring of cool air whipping lightly at our clothes. It was a beautiful night, and I thanked the stars for bringing Logan and I together.

"Here I wouldn't feel so weird, hitting on a pregnant woman. Even if that woman is incredibly hot. Rory, you're so beautiful. I missed you," he said, as we kissed again in the isolated gazebo by the pool.

"I missed you too." It was too long. Six weeks. Whoever said that pregnant women turn into sex-crazed maniacs in their second trimester wasn't lying nor merely placating us. Logan's hands were cupping my breasts, running his fingers across the thin material of my dress; my hands were busying themselves in the spaces between the buttons of his shirt, on the hardness in his pants. Just relishing being able to touch each other again. But when he started to lift my dress, I pulled away and walked to the other side of the gazebo, catching my breath.

"Wait, Logan. We need to talk. I had a plan, coming here."

"This seems like a pretty good plan to me."

"Logan."

"Kidding." He ran his hand through his hair, gave me his smirk. "You know, things don't always have to happen according to plan, Ace," he said more seriously.

"I know. That's been the running theme of my life these past 6 months. And I'm trying, Logan. To accept things as they come, especially those I have no real control over. Like this," I pointed to my stomach. "Like who I happen to love," I added softly. "I've been attending meetings of the Pro-Con Lists Anonymous, you know."

"Those lists _can_ be addictive. I found myself making one just this morning, when I debated whether or not I should call you for the second time this week. Addictive, but I'd say not a whole lot of help."

"You did call me."

"Yeah. But I always wonder whether I should."

"I'm always happy when you do. Logan...I planned--I need to tell you that everything you said back then at the hospital…you were right. You're always right about me. I was afraid of taking the proverbial leap of faith with you, because…because you're a _Huntzberger,_ and it complicated things for me. You know how important my career, my dreams are to me, and I work hard for them. I worried about what people would think, and Mitchum…" I faltered and looked away. He knew how I felt about his father anyway.

"They're probably still going to think whatever they want to think, Ace. Some people at least, but not all."

"I know. But I realize it's not important, really. Because after you left me at the hospital…"

"I'm so sorry, Rory. I felt sorry everyday."

"No, you were right to go, to expect more from me, from us. And this is so cliché-ish, but I guess I didn't realize what I had til it was gone–you and our baby, both. I almost lost you two, and nothing, _nothing_ in my career, my life, is ever worth that. Fes–the rest of the world in need of foreign correspondents–will always be there, never beyond my reach. But right now there's you, and heart…"

"Heart?"

"Oh, yeah…nothing." I felt a little embarrased about our tete-a-tetes, heart. "It's just silly."

"You have a silly heart?"

"That, too. Hey Logan?…"

I walked towards him across the gazebo, to where he was sitting. And for a moment, I was undecided. Does one stand? Kneel? Not in my condition. I ended up sitting on his lap, my hands prim on his shoulders.

"Are you…do you–do you think you could hold that silly heart in your safekeeping? For a long, long time. Like, you know, forever?"

"Uh…Yes…? But what exactly am I saying yes to, Rory?" His eyes were quizzical but smiling. "You know you don't even need to ask me that; I'll love you for a long, long time. Or are you just not making sense to me because of our lovely and distracting physical arrangement here?" He nuzzled my neck.

"Logan…stop. I've never done this before, okay?"

"God, I hope not."

"You know what I'm talking about?"

"Yes. You're trying to ask me to marry you."

I stood up indignantly. The nerve! "Well, thanks for giving me a hard time, if you've known all along, you could've just…"

"So just ask me, Rory," he said simply.

I took a breath and sat on his lap again. "Okay, Logan Huntzberger. Marry me?"

"Yes."


	4. Born

August 5, 2022 (Year 13)

"God, I hate it when she does this!" Lily flung the notebook on the floor, and burrowed her tear-stained face in her pillow.

"You hate it when I do what?" came the muffled voice from behind the closed door. "Is it safe to come in now?"

"Go away, Mom. I'm still vegetating."

"Well, feel free to vegetate til you sprout hairs, Lil, but your sister has been bawling about blowing the candles for the last hour. Think you can look kindly upon her? She's only 4 and can only grasp the concept of chocolate birthday cake, not your annual ritual of reflecting upon from whence you came." Rory poked her head in the room. "Sweetie? Happy birthday."

"Well? What happened next?" The blonde, bespectacled, long-legged girl turned around to look at her mother expectantly.

Rory rolled her eyes upwards but gamely plopped on the bed next to her 13-year-old daughter. "Duh. You're here, so I guess that means I had you," Rory ticked off her fingers. "Two, you already know that your Dad and I got married," she plowed on while Lily sighed in exasperation.

"Three, you have a 12 year-old brother, so I guess that means we had Matt a year after you." Obviously, that was unplanned for--again--but between her, Logan, Lorelai, and their now-nanny-of-13-years Sue, Rory had the whole baby boom balancing act down pat. Even if it meant arriving at meetings a tad late, with applesauce stains on her crisp power suit. Sometimes, the things unplanned for bring the most joy, for all their being so unexpected.

"Four, you know that your mother has recently become head of the New York bureau at the _Times,_ and that your Dad has his own Internet media company, so things turned out well on the career front. Aaand seven years after Matt, we had Emma, your baby sister." The only child Rory would have had if her plans of launching her motherhood at age 32 panned out. Which, thank God, didn't.

"End of story. Did I miss anything? Anyone?"

"Thanks for writing to me, Mom." Lily leaned her head on Rory's shoulder.

"You're welcome, heart."

"But why did you stop?" She had new questions every year. (Last year, it was "Do you still hate Grandma Shira?" That was a tough one for even the very-diplomatic Rory to answer.)

"Well, I guess its because there was no reason to keep things just between us two, anymore. I kept our secret alive in that journal. But later on, I had your Dad to share you with."

"Were you happy after…after that last page?"

"Oh, Lily, what do you think? So happy I couldn't think of what to write in my journal anymore. It's mostly the tortured souls who have much more fodder to write about, you know. Normal is boring," Rory replied, looking pointedly at the stacks of diaries under Lily's burgeoning bookshelf. "Me--it hasn't been always easy--but I've been pretty much living my happily-ever-after."

"I only wish there were a few more entries, you know…"

"You wish that every year hon, I know. But any more entries and that journal would merit an NC-17 rating."

"I'm _thirteen,_ Mom," Lily insisted, as all 13-year-olds do. "Besides, I skipped all the sex parts. Really, as if the very _idea_ of my parents having sex wasn't traumatizing enough."

The bedroom door swung open and Logan stood at the threshold, carrying a tear-stained, pink-cheeked Emma. "Okaay, time's up. What's going on?"

"We were just talking about sex. The overabundance of it between us, in fact." Rory smiled at Logan, whose hair was the same color as Lily's.

"Huh. So this is what you talk about every year on your birthday?" He looked alarmed.

"Yuck, noo…we were just getting to the part where Mom would tell me about my name."

"Well it certainly wasn't Demerol," Logan laughed. "Brave soul, your mother. She didn't have any anaesthesia, just straightaway did the whole Amazon-tribal-woman thing."

"Not by choice! I would have preferred to be knocked unconscious."

"Just be thankful Frank was able to get us to the hospital in 7 minutes flat, Ace. Or you would have had Lily in the limo and she might have ended up with the name Lincoln."

"Well, it was painful!" Rory complained bitterly.

"Not so painful that she couldn't have two more, apparently," Logan and Lily shared a laugh, while Rory set her arms akimbo.

"Well, that's just classic. You men have no idea."

"I think I do. You kept cursing me and screaming for your mother those last few life-defining minutes. Hence, your name, Lily," he said, turning to his daughter. "It just seemed right to name you after Lorelai."

"Lorelai the Foouurrth," came the singsong voice of Matt, as if on cue, from the hallway. "May I have the honor of cutting off a slice of your nose? An eye? We're getting hungry down here!"

"Oh, shut up, you two," Lily shouted back at Matt and his perennial partner in crime, Ian.

"Hey, that's no way to talk to your uncle." Ian of Lorelai's blue eyes and Luke's aquiline nose came bounding into the room. "Hey, Ror," he said, walking over to Rory and kissing her cheek.

"I still don't get why he can call you 'Ror' and I have to call you 'Mom'," Matt complained.

"Maybe because she _is_ your Mom and not your sister, airhead," Ian replied, flopping on Lily's bed.

"Aaargh, and since when were you even permitted to enter my bedroom?" Lily stood up, towering over Ian.

"I'm here for the ritual coming-of-age sacrifice reserved for 13-year-old girls. I was told that it actually transforms you into someone attractive enough to date. Maybe you'll finally look like a girl."

Ian and Matt teased her mercilessly, but were her staunchest defenders against any untoward attempts of some hapless member of the male species to date her. Lily, after all–despite Ian's teasing–was beautiful in a classic way, leggy and blonde and blue-eyed. Rory often pondered the irony of having a daughter that looked like a cheerleader…but was in every other way her daughter, bookish and a bit awkward, moreso at 13.

"Well I'm not interested, anyway, so there!" Lily retorted, folding her arms across her chest and sitting back on the bed. _Unless he's as handsome and brilliant and fun and loving as my Dad, anyways, _she thought.

"Hey, stop tormenting the birthday girl. Matt, could you go downstairs and tell Sue to make Emma's milk now? She looks about ready to take her nap. And see to your grandparents!" Logan called to his spitting image bounding down the staircase.

"I can take her," Rory offered, stretching her arms to Logan.

"No, it's okay. I missed my bunny the past two days." He nuzzled the dark head of Emma, silent and comfortable on his shoulder, as Rory nuzzled Logan's arm herself. "There's been a lot more 'missing' going around…" she whispered.

"Now…where were we…?" Lily began loudly, dragging Ian and pushing her father gently out the door and hoping to complete her birthday ritual with her mother before the party got into full swing.

But it wasn't to be, for Lorelai barged in, the door narrowly missing Logan and Rory, with an "Aand the coolest, hottest grandma is here! The party can now officially commence!"

"Hey Mom!" Rory called out in greeting.

"Lorelai!" Lily squealed, jumping up to hug her.

"Why does she get to call her 'Lorelai' and I have to call her 'Mom'?" Ian now muttered in turn, under his breath.

"Has the party moved up here? 'Cause I got the candles, the cake, the cake knife, the camera, the balloons, the little goodie bags…"

Sure enough, streams of _"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…" _came wafting up the stairs. Luke was bearing the cake, decorated with a picture-perfect face of Lily, surrounded by candles and sugar flowers. It was pretty enough to make Emma clap excitedly, despite Lily's groans of "Aw, this is just _too_ corny!"

She was smiling, though. As were her parents and siblings, Lorelai and Luke and Ian, Emily, Shira (a truce was called for these occasions) and Mitchum. A handful of her schoolmates from Columbia Prep were there, whispering and giggling at Matt and Ian. Normally this would have annoyed Lily. But not today. Today, she was a happy girl, blowing out her candles and wishing for nothing in particular. Except maybe the complete, leather-bound collection of novels by Jane Austen, which she already knew her Mom and Dad got for her (it was her mother's copies, after all, that were so worn the pages were practically disintegrating).

"Happy birthday, heart," Rory said again, kissing Lily's hair, as pieces of Lily's face were passed around. "I love you. I'm the happiest for having had you. You saved me and your Dad, you know. In a roundabout way. But you did."

"Love you too, Mom," she leaned ever so slightly against Rory, now of the age when hugging–especially in front of one's friends–was simply _not_ done.

With that, the birthday ritual was complete. The ritual which began every year since Lily was 9 with her reading of the journal, the story of her and her mother's heart.

_This is the sound of your heartbeat._

T H E E N D

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**A/N:** I hope you all enjoyed my Rory-centric "mini-fic" (not quite one-shot, but not quite full-length, either, heh); I find that there are so few fics that really focus on Rory almost exclusively. I'm looking forward to your comments and feedback.

**The assignment (fulfilled, I hope I fulfilled at least some of your expectations :) Thanks for the inspiring story prompt! I love the novel from whence it came):**

**story prompt:** "In the center of the paper, very small, in black ink, I draw a heart, not a silly Valentine but an anatomically correct heart, tiny, doll-like, and then veins that reach all the way to the edges of the paper, that hold the heart enmeshed like a fly in a spiderweb. See, there's the heartbeat. ("The Time Traveler's Wife," Audrey Niffenegger)

**One thing you would like to see in the story:** A birthday party (but not Rory's) that has a picture cake with the birthday person's face on it.

**One thing you don't need: **A love triangle of any sort, whether it involves Rory and her love life or anyone else.


End file.
